


The Snow it Melts the Soonest

by Amanita_Fierce, MoreHuman



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Inanimate Objects, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Crack Treated Seriously, Introspection, M/M, New York City, POV Inanimate Object, Podfic, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes, Snowmen, attention is love, extremely on-the-nose use of The Velveteen Rabbit, is there unresolved sexual tension in here? you tell me?, love is functional, yes you read that tag combination correctly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27743986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanita_Fierce/pseuds/Amanita_Fierce, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoreHuman/pseuds/MoreHuman
Summary: Patrick the snowman has an introspective soul. Meanwhile David’s is alone for Christmas. Again. (Their hearts go thumpity-thump-thump.)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 95
Kudos: 121
Collections: Schitt's Creek: Frozen Over (2020)





	The Snow it Melts the Soonest

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver2020) collection. 



> For the prompt: David makes a snowman and it comes to life as Patrick, so basically a Frosty the Snowman AU, but maybe Patrick doesn't have to melt and they can fall in l-o-v-e 
> 
> So this happened because I joked that if I took this prompt, it would be 5k of Patrick introspecting about his snowman identity. And then my brain took me seriously. This, friends, is why we never joke.
> 
> For reasons beyond my control, the title is from Sting.

**Stream Podfic:**

**Download Podfic:** [mp3](https://archive.org/download/the-snow-it-melts-the-soonest/The%20Snow%20it%20Melts%20the%20Soonest.mp3) _(right click to save-as)_

* * *

Patrick thinks maybe he never existed before David’s hands.

He must have. There was something before he was this. A dusting of powder across blades of grass, a crunch around boot heels and mitten tips, a blanket sparkling white under the sunshine. The images linger like memories, almost, maybe. He’s not quite sure what memories are. He existed before, but not like this.

He knows he never had a name before David’s voice.

“Patrick.” It’s the first word he ever hears, and the sound of it surrounds him. “That’s a good name. I haven’t dated a Patrick. A Patrick would never lure me to Central Park for a Tinder date and then _stand me up_.”

Patrick doesn’t know what this means exactly, but yes, he’s sure he would never.

“What are you doing?” This voice is smaller, farther away.

“I’m building a snowman.” David sounds like he wants this smaller voice to go even farther away.

“But you’re a grown up?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“What kind of grown up builds a snowman by himself?”

“The kind of grown up who’s none of your business.”

“Why is he sitting down? Snowmen aren’t supposed to sit on benches.”

“Well. This one is.”

“Why?”

“Because the world is... exhausting. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Patrick doesn’t know what sitting down is, and he doesn’t know what exhausting feels like, but he wants to believe David is telling the truth. Maybe he will understand when he’s older.

“Why doesn’t he have a face?”

“Oh my god who are you, your Kindergarten’s premiere art critic? I’m getting to it!”

David does something with his hand and suddenly Patrick can see. He can see eyebrows, cheekbones, chin. He can see David. David, who’s looking right at Patrick, right into Patrick’s eyes, but not really seeing anything. His focus is elsewhere. Patrick can tell. Then David steps aside, and all Patrick sees is white. Light. A small person dressed in red, mouth already open with a new question.

“And what are you doing with his arms? Shouldn’t they just be, like, sticks?”

“ _Sticks_ don’t have the proper proportion or articulation for an arm. I have a BFA. I think I can manage to sculpt a limb out of snow.”

Sure enough, Patrick can feel his left arm taking shape under David’s fingers, until it’s stretched across the back of the bench in a pose that’s frozen, but not stiff. Casual.

“Does he have a name?”

“Yes. Stop asking questions. Go away.” A black-gloved hand waves through the air. David communicates with so much more than just his words. It’s good to see him.

“Okaaaay.” The small person starts shrinking into a small red dot, but not before a last shout. “Give my best to Bob Cratchitt!”

”My god! Who raised you?”

The red dot doesn’t answer.

“Well that was…”

But Patrick doesn’t find out what that was. David goes quiet. Patrick can’t keep track of where he is, or how much time has passed, until he speaks again.

“This is my favorite spot in the city, you know.” David is next to him. They must be side by side on the bench. “The view you get sitting here, all trees, except for that little bit of the roof of the Met poking up? You can’t get that anywhere else.”

Patrick can see the view from here. He thinks he can. He wouldn’t know about anywhere else.

“And of course, the fact that the trees are _way_ over there and I am over here is. Well. Preferred.”

Patrick can see he’s right. The trees are far. David is close. It’s better this way.

“I can’t believe this—this _Kyle_ guy got me to tell him about my favorite place in New York and then couldn’t even bother to show up when we—This is why I never make plans with anyone!”

Patrick can’t see that David has been leaning his head back against the bench, against his arm, but he feels it when it’s gone. The absence registers as a chill.

“Oh my god, what am I doing?” David stands in a swirl of black coat. “See you around, Patrick.”

*

“I brought you something.” 

David’s here again. He has something long and thin and blue in his hands. It clings under Patrick’s chin when David wraps it around him. “Someone left this scarf at my place, and it’s so not my color. I thought you might like to be… warm? This is stupid.”

It doesn’t feel stupid to Patrick. But it also doesn’t feel warm. What does warm feel like?

“Well. I’m just on my way to visit the Georgia O’Keeffes. Let the countdown to some Midwestern tourist making a joke about labia begin. I feel like even you could manage to be more original than that.” David’s eyebrows tug together. “If you even care about labia? I guess I shouldn’t assume what your… preferences are.”

Patrick has no opinions about labia.

“The scarf looks good on you. Patrick. Anyway.”

David wraps his arms around himself and turns back to trudge through to the pathway. Patrick can’t watch him go, not really. He can’t quite pinpoint the moment he’s no longer there.

*

“You know, I was really in a rush before.”

Sometimes Patrick doesn’t know David’s there until he speaks. Right now he’s crouched down in front of Patrick, looking up at him. Footprints mark the snow in the outline of David’s boots, but Patrick didn’t see him walk up. He wonders what else he misses, spending so much time unaware.

“When I made your face, I mean.” David starts tugging off his glove. “It’s—Well, it feels kind of rude to say it needs to be fixed, but I’d like to…”

The sweep of David’s bare fingers is like nothing Patrick has ever felt before. Has he ever felt anything before? David’s face is so close, his eyes fixed in on Patrick’s nose, his forehead, his mouth. David curls his fingertips to dig, to brush away what’s there, and Patrick feels the touch against the surface of himself. David finds the shape of him, and that’s how Patrick learns what that is.

“There.” David backs up a bit. “That’s more of a face. Your cheeks still aren’t quite right, though. Maybe if I…”

He wraps one hand around the side of Patrick’s head and leans in. The weight and smoothness of David’s palm is distracting, so it’s a surprise when a hot breath hits Patrick’s opposite cheek. A melt prickles there, spreading around and down, reaching deeper and—

Oh. 

So this is what warm feels like.

“That’s better.”

Patrick has to agree.

*

“What you have to understand, Patrick, is that Marley and Marley is a classic. A real banger.” David returns his candy cane to his mouth, briefly, then keeps gesticulating with it. “So how was I supposed to know that Robert Marley isn’t a character in the book? Why would Kermit lie to me like that?”

Patrick has no idea what David is talking about, but he’s learned that’s usually when he most enjoys the sound of David’s voice.

“I mean I would expect it from Michael Caine. After what happened in Dubrovnik, I would expect _anything_ from Michael Caine. But the Muppets aren’t supposed to make a fool out of me.”

The candy cane disappears from view and David goes quiet. He’s sitting on the bench next to Patrick, his animated hands all that’s visible from this angle.

“Anyway, this is why I don’t do team trivia. If I always play by myself, no one knows about my embarrassing blind spots. Except the scorekeeper. And... you, now. I guess.”

Patrick can’t see it, but he can hear David sucking on the candy cane. He knows it’s happening.

“You’re a good listener, you know?”

Yes. Patrick really wants to be that.

“Too bad you only exist in my imagination.”

Is that true? Is that where Patrick has been this whole time?

“Ugh, I can’t finish this, it’s too sweet.”

David holds up the candy cane, a red-striped hook stripped down to a white point at the other end.

“I don’t suppose you’re a fan of red dye 40?”

The candy point probes at the corner of Patrick’s mouth, then slips in.

“That looks…” David ducks around to see, and Patrick catches the smile peeking out from between his teeth. “It suits you, actually. Complements your scarf. I don’t usually share candy, but I promise I have a clean mouth.”

He stands up, pulls his gloves back on, blows into his cupped hands.

“Enjoy it while it lasts. This park is full of disgusting scavengers—pigeons, squirrels, packs of roving toddlers. I’m sure that’ll be long gone by the next time I’m here. Maybe I’ll pretend you magically came to life and ate it yourself. Um.” David hides his face behind his hands. “Okay, let’s forget I said _that_.”

Patrick doesn’t think he knows how to forget. But taste, he has a handle on that. And the candy? David is right.

It’s sweet.

*

Sometimes David doesn’t speak at all. Sometimes he just sits next to Patrick with his phone, his fingers tapping and pinching at it. Sometimes this happens at night, when the light of the screen turns David’s face a pale blue. There seems to be a whole world happening in there that Patrick can’t imagine. Sometimes David feels very far off when he doesn’t talk.

Other times he feels very close by. Like today, right now, when he has his phone put away, his head leaned back against Patrick’s arm, angled up toward the sky. He’s humming something, a rumble in his throat that Patrick can feel reverberating through him, if he concentrates. When did he learn to concentrate?

For a long time it’s just melody, the rise and fall and texture of David’s voice applied to music. It’s a simple tune. A sad one, Patrick thinks, but richly sad. Sad with a purpose. It keeps fading in and out, like David forgot he was humming, or never knew. Many repetitions in, words appear. 

“O come, o come, Emmanuel…”

David’s head snaps up. He shakes himself, looks around. There’s no one else here. Then David isn’t here either. He doesn’t say anything before he leaves. 

*

“What is it, Alexis?”

Patrick can hear David coming up behind him, announced by the squeak of his boot treads against ice. This is the voice he only uses when talking to his phone.

“No, I don’t know how to say ‘embassy’ in Burmese. Where are you?”

The bench lurches slightly as David leans against the back of it. Patrick feels a hand settle on his shoulder.

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

David’s hand rubs back and forth absently. He listens for a long time before he speaks.

“Mmm, you don’t have to be _like, so bummed to be missing Christmas_ , though. There’s no family party this year.”

A small, high-pitched sound pierces the air. It must be coming from David’s phone.

“Oh my god, Alexis. It was in the email!” David taps his fingers in time with these words and Patrick feels it in his chest. “Mom has a ‘scheduling conflict’ with that benefit for kids who need nose jobs, even though we all _know_ it’s not until the second week of Jan—”

That high-pitched sound again, a little less small.

“How should I know? Apparently she’s very concerned that Eva Longoria’s skills as a ventriloquist are going to show her up, and she can’t afford a family distraction right now.”

David lets out a long sigh.

“Yes. Sure. Another Friendsmas for us. Fun.”

The hand leaves Patrick’s shoulder.

“Ew, of course I don’t want to see them. Or you! And leave the greatest city in the world? Please.”

David comes around to stand in front of the bench, where Patrick can see him.

“Mmmhm. Look, I have to go.” David’s eyes flick to Patrick’s, then squint into the distance. “I’m—meeting someone. Enjoy Bur—”

David pulls the phone away from his ear. He’s still talking to it, but it doesn’t seem to be talking back anymore.

“—ma.”

He flops down on the bench, into the slot right under Patrick’s arm. This is still Patrick’s blind spot, but by now he’s used to knowing when David is here. Even when he’s not drawing attention to himself, Patrick knows. So the sound of David’s voice after a long silence doesn’t startle him.

“Patrick.” It’s the quietest word he’s ever spoken. “Have you ever felt like maybe no one has ever really loved you?”

Patrick considers the question. He’s not quite sure he understands. He knows he can’t answer. But he thinks... no. 

He’s never felt like that.

*

The next time David visits, he’s already singing.

_“O come, o come, Emmanuel—”_

It’s the same song as before, but it sounds different, the syllables arriving in the night full-voiced and open.

“Patrick!” There’s a looseness in David’s body as he slides into his spot on the bench. He puts one hand on Patrick’s leg, the other at the back of his neck. “Come here, and I’ll tell you a secret.”

David brings his lips very close to Patrick’s ear.

“I’ve been drinking. Shhhh.”

David releases him and wiggles his hips in close to Patrick’s side. He starts singing again, but it’s short lived.

“ _Rejoice, rejoice_ —You know, people think it’s sad to drink alone, but it’s the _fucking best_. Trust me.”

Patrick will have to trust him.

“I get to pick my own wine. I don’t have to make pointless conversation, or worry about anyone else wanting to...” His voice trails off and then the song bursts out of him again. “ _Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel shall… something something Israel._ Fuck.”

David pulls out his phone. They’re so close together now that when he holds it out, it’s in front of both of them, holding both of them in its glow.

“This song is stuck in my head but I can’t remember the words. It’s gonna bug me.”

He thumbs at his phone screen, then brings it nearer to his face. 

“Wow, there are more verses to this than I thought—Hey! There’s one about me.”

He clears his throat and sits up a little straighter.

_”O come, Thou Key of David, come  
And open wide our heavenly home  
Make safe the way that leads on high  
And close the path to misery”_

David laughs, harsh and twisted. It’s the first time Patrick hasn’t enjoyed the sound of it.

“Okay, yeah, not about me then. Pretty sure I’m the kind of key that _opens_ the path to misery.”

He goes back to humming after that, the joyful energy gone from his voice. The notes stretch and grow quieter until they fade into breathing. Before long, his head lands on Patrick’s shoulder, heavy and warm. A little too warm. A little too heavy. It will leave a dent. 

Patrick doesn’t care.

*

“Don’t laugh at me, okay?”

Patrick has never laughed. He wouldn’t even know how to try. He thinks he would like to, someday, but not at David.

“Someone used to read this to me every Christmas Eve when I was growing up, and it just doesn’t feel like today if I don’t read it out loud.”

He’s sitting on the bench, but somehow Patrick can still see the pages of the book he spreads across his lap. How did that happen? He doesn’t remember moving. He doesn’t remember even knowing how to move.

“Usually I do this alone but…” David finds the page he’s been looking for. He shakes his head. “I mean, I guess I still am.”

Is that how David feels, sitting here? Alone? Patrick can’t imagine it. He has no concept of _alone_.

“It’s not even a Christmas book, not really. But there weren’t many options for a kid who refused to give Santa any attention.”

David starts reading. It’s a story about a toy rabbit given as a Christmas present to a little boy, who sets the rabbit aside and forgets about him for a long time. They get to David’s favorite part quickly.

“I don’t tell people this is my favorite part, because it’s everyone’s favorite part, but it is. Don’t give away my secret.”

Patrick wants him to keep reading. He wants to tell him to keep reading. David keeps reading.

_"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"_

_"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long—for a long, long time—"_

Something wet plops down onto the page.

“Fuck. Goddamn it. I can’t do this here. I should’ve known better.”

The book snaps shut, and David wipes at his eyes. Patrick doesn’t want that. He knows he hasn’t moved, that he can’t move, but he feels himself leaning in closer to David anyway. He wants to hear what comes next. He’s a good listener, he knows he is, and he doesn’t want to miss it. He doesn’t want to miss knowing how Real happens.

David doesn’t keep reading. The book stays closed on his lap for a long while, then it disappears back into his bag. David takes deep breaths. Eventually he stands up.

“Merry Christmas, Patrick.”

After that, Patrick’s alone.

*

_O come, Thou Key of David, come_

Patrick can hear the words, but he doesn’t know where they’re coming from. It’s not David’s voice.

_And open wide our heavenly home_

David isn’t here. There are a few people walking by on the path, but none of them are singing.

_Make safe the way that leads on high_

Patrick knows these words. He remembers David singing them. The words get louder.

_And close the path to misery_

This voice, it’s—It’s not coming from out there. It’s happening somewhere inside. And. Huh. That’s new. The voice stops singing.

_Inside. In here. By myself. I can say whatever I want._

The sun fades from the sky. A breeze blows snow through the treetops. Bells ring somewhere far away. Patrick keeps talking to himself. He tells himself the story of everything he sees and everything he hears and everything he knows. He starts from the beginning.

*

This time he sees David coming. 

He’s watching a group of kids in a snowball fight when David rounds the corner of the path right into the middle of it. He flings himself to safety before he’s hit, but clearly nothing about the incident pleases him. He’s still glaring back over his shoulder when he comes up to the bench.

Patrick wants to laugh, but he hasn’t figured out how yet.

“Oh my god, children shouldn’t be allowed in here.”

_Pretty sure the park is for everyone, David._

“Why are they so happy, anyway? They’re literally getting pelted in the face with ice.”

_Maybe Santa was good to them._

“Ugh, I bet they’re happy about, like, _Christmas_ or whatever. The cheer and the presents and their parents lying to them about where it all came from. I bet they still believe in magic.”

_You make believing in magic sound worse than getting pelted in the face with ice._

“I hate this holiday.”

_I’m gathering that. Why?_

“It’s never meant what it’s supposed to mean to me—family and joy and peace and love and understanding. I never got any of that out of it.”

_What did you get out of it?_

“Hanukkah is a holiday that makes sense. You expect very little, and you never end up with much more than that. Maybe you win some chocolate coins, maybe you don’t, but no one’s trying to make it into some huge metaphor for eternal happiness.”

_I’ve heard you talk about chocolate before. If that’s not happiness, what is?_

“It’s a celebration of reasonable expectations. You think there’s enough oil for one night, it ends up lasting for eight nights, but still. It runs out. Nothing lasts forever, not even miracles. You’re not _supposed_ to hope for more. That’s an honest celebration.”

_Honesty sounds nice. But so does hope._

“There are corners of Christmas that don’t feel so lonely, though.”

_The singing?_

“I got lost in one of those sidewalk tree lots on the way over here. Can you believe it’s _literally_ Christmas Day and they’re still trying to sell me a Charlie Brown tree for $45?”

_Is that too much?_

“I mean, I could buy up every lot in the city, but that’s not the point.”

_The point is that you’re supposed to love this holiday enough to want to pay that much._

“The point is that I’m supposed to love this fucking holiday enough to want to pay that much.”

_Got it._

“It’s like getting swallowed up by a forest, walking into one of those lots. One second you’re on the sidewalk in Manhattan, the next you’re in Narnia.”

_Which borough is Narnia again?_

David laughs, and Patrick imagines what it would be like to join his own voice to that sound.

“Anyway. Narnia isn’t all bad, I guess. As long as the Jesus lions stay dead.”

_You’ve lost me. But that’s okay. Keep talking._

“I wish I could go into the museum today. I’m never lonely around beautiful things. Even if I’m also around tourists.”

_You can still see the museum, though. There through the trees._

“Mmm. Here is close enough. It has to be.”

David is quiet for a long time, but Patrick isn’t. He talks about everything that’s happened in the park since David last left, everything he can remember. The woman who rushed by with an armful of what looked like eight different colors of human hair. The couple who sat down next to him to loudly break up. The child who screamed all the way into the distance because there are no ice cream stands in December. No one else seemed to notice any of this.

_I wish you’d seen it, David. I wish you’d been here._

He knows that David can’t actually hear him. But he hopes that he’s listening anyway.

*

It happens all at once.

Patrick opens his eyes and realizes—

He just opened his eyes.

He blinks. He blinks again. He looks down. He’s wearing jeans, fabric that’s blue and thick and rough. He can feel it against his fingers. He has fingers. He has hands. He has _skin_.

He can’t believe it.

“Patrick?”

Patrick squints up at the shape of David against the overcast sky. He’s not used to looking at him from this angle, with David standing tall over him. Patrick smiles. He’s not used to that either. But he knows they still recognize each other.

_It’s me. Please don’t ask me to explain._

“What—” 

David sinks down on the bench. Snow has been falling, sifting white flakes into his dark hair. He reaches up to brush them away and Patrick stops him, takes his hand. He expects it to feel warm, like always, but instead it’s icy and trembling. Patrick wraps his fingers around David’s chilled wrist and gives it a squeeze. Patrick likes being the warm one.

“What was the magic?” David reaches out with his other hand, but it doesn’t land anywhere. Like he thinks Patrick might melt at the touch, even through his clothes, even through his skin. “Was it the scarf? The candy cane? The book? Was it—Oh god. Was it Christmas?”

Patrick laughs. He doesn’t even have to try to do it. It just happens.

He laughs because he knows the magic was all of those things and none of them. Things like this don’t happen all at once, even if it looks that way. This isn’t transformation. It’s continuation. Patrick remembers how he got here. He remembers every secret David trusted him with, every gesture that made him grow solid and aware and curious about the sound of his own voice. He’s only known one force strong enough to pull him into the world, to make him real, and it’s pulling him still.

“David.” It’s the first word he ever says, and he watches David hear it. He says it again. He says more. He says it all.

“David, it was you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to swat117 for the beta and the 💓. Much obliged to ICMezzo for helping with the non-quote summary. I’m honored that Amanita_Fierce chose to do such beautiful things with my words. 
> 
> Like many things that happen in this particular corner of the worldwide web, this is all TINN’s fault.
> 
> Thank you also to sunlightsymphony for the podfic beta listen.


End file.
